


these tornadoes are for you

by savedby



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-10-24 18:52:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10747734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savedby/pseuds/savedby
Summary: Nick has never had much of an opinion on thunderstorms, but these days he finds that he looks forward to them.





	these tornadoes are for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DistortedDaytime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistortedDaytime/gifts).



> You wanted magic domestic dads and I did my best to deliver.
> 
> Title is from Siken's "A Primer For The Small Weird Loves"

 

 

**I.**

 

The first time they really meet is after Nick signs his first contract with the Blue Jackets, and Bob is there to iron out some of his accommodation details.

 

“Nick? This is Sergei Bobrovsky, you’ll be teammates this season,” the coach says. Nick turns around and has to look up, which he usually dislikes. Bobrovsky is tall, but skinny, not quite handsome, his nose too pointed and his face too round.

 

“Hello,” he says, a little hesitant, accent blending around the edges. Nick grins at him and extends his arm.

 

“Bob-rov-sky,” Nick sounds out, “that’s an excellent name you’ve got there.”

 

He doesn’t know why, but this makes Bobrovsky laugh. His smile does very nice things to his face. Nick immediately resolves to see it as often as possible.

 

Bobrovsky takes his hand. 

 

Nick never knows what to expect when he makes skin contact with someone. Sometimes it’s the soft touch of happiness, or a hint of curiosity fluttering around his consciousness, and other times there’s anger, or annoyance, pinpricks on his skin.

 

Bobrovsky is...none of that. When Nick touches his bare palm there’s a zap, like static electricity, but weaker, and his nose fills briefly with the smell of ozone. 

 

Bobrovsky doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss, just drops Nick’s hand, still smiling. “Call me Bob,” he says, “everyone does.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Bob,” Nick says, working the pins and needles out of his tongue, “we’re going to have a great season.”

 

Bob smiles wider. It truly does excellent things for his face.

 

*

 

**II.**

 

Nick is a touch empath. Not a particularly strong one. The most he ever gets from people is impressions of feelings, brief and hard to grasp, like smoke on a clear evening. He doesn’t mind it. Marcus is a lot stronger than him and the power used to give him headaches bad enough to keep him in bed, with Nick shooting pucks into the space under it, because he couldn’t practice outside without his brother being there, could he?

 

Marcus’ got a pretty good handle on himself these days though. He wears a limiter during games, sewn into his shoulder pads, dampening anything he might accidentally pick up if he lost control. Daily, he goes without. And he can pick up Nick’s bad moods all the way from Buffalo, which is awfully annoying.

 

Bob isn’t like them. Nick suspects he’s some sort of weather mage, because touching him still sometimes leaves Nick’s fingers a little numb. The slightest smell of ozone follows Bob around everywhere, just concealed by his cologne and stronger after games, when adrenaline is high.

 

And he’s sure that Bob must be pretty strong, because he wears limiters even off the ice. He’s got studs in each earlobe. Nick sometimes catches sight of the runes written on them, if Bob stands in the right light. He can’t read them. He’s never learned.

 

Still, it’s not like he and Bob are the weirdest thing in the Blue Jackets locker room. Nick is pretty sure that Jack is some sort of werecreature, can feel it sometimes, snarling beneath Jack’s surface emotions when he gets agitated. Cam has some fey blood in him. It’s why he ages slower, much to his disgust. He also once tried to convince Nick that he could talk to dogs, but Nick isn’t buying it. And Seth floats. When he’s happy, but mostly so he can be taller than anyone else in the room.

 

Hartsy isn’t actually related to cave trolls, even though he sometimes looks like one in the mornings.

 

*

 

**III.**

 

Nick and Bob have adjacent apartments that the team provides that first season. Nick can cook (it’s the Italian in him) and Bob can’t, so he ends up spending a lot of time in Nick’s apartment, eating his food and expanding his knowledge of popular North American sports. 

 

They hang out enough that Nick doesn’t need to look at a weather report to know when a storm is coming to town. Bob changes from his usual steadying stillness to fidgeting on Nick’s sofa, picking at the loose threads in his frayed pajamas, absentmindedly pulling on the edge of Nick’s sweater when he gets lost in thought. He also smiles wider and laughs louder, and wine seems to affect him more.

 

Nick has never had much of an opinion on thunderstorms, but these days he finds that he looks forward to them.

 

*

 

**IV.**

 

Nick doesn’t know when the hugs become a thing that people know about. He just knows that one evening after a shutout, his elation and pride overwhelm him and he throws his arms around Bob in a bear hug. 

 

There’s a little zap, just barely there through all the padding, and it feeds into his joy, bubbling through his bloodstream like champagne.

 

“Bob-rov-sky,” he yells into Bob’s neck and Bob laughs, his helmet slipping down to clatter against Nick’s.

 

*

**V.**  
  


It’s a bad game. Worse than that, it’s a bad game in a string of bad games, a losing streak they can’t seem to dig their way out of, no matter how hard Nick skates, no matter how many shots Bob blocks. 

 

Nick is just so tired. He sees the same exhaustion reflected in everyone’s faces and he doesn’t have to touch them to know their feelings mirror his. He does it anyway, goes around the room and pats shoulders, mutters stock phrases that never actually make anyone feel better. 

 

Bob is the worst off. Nick touches his shoulder, just briefly, and there’s nothing except for a very weak spark, and Bob looks up at him, a little helpless, a little like he might apologize.

 

It hadn’t rained in a long time, Nick realizes suddenly. Bob is paler than usual, listless. 

 

And this at least, Nick can do something about.

 

He plans out the route on his phone. The hardest part is finding a weather map that isn’t complete bullshit. And then he intercepts Bob in the parking lot.

 

“Come with me, I’ll drive,” he says and Bob frowns at him.

 

“But my car-” he starts.

 

“We’ll pick it up tomorrow,” Nick interrupts, pulls him towards his car.

 

“Nick,” it’s Bob’s secret weapon. Nick’s been expecting it, keeps his eyes firmly ahead and doesn’t look at Bob’s face.  “I’m tired, please, let me go home.”

 

The pleading, exhausted tone almost makes him reconsider. But if he lets him go now, he’ll only mope around further in his apartment.

 

“You can sleep in the car,” he says instead, and Bob sighs, but buckles himself dutifully into the passenger seat.

 

Nick doesn’t bother to dock his iPhone, just turns on the radio on whatever college station it happens to be on, programs the GPS with the proper coordinates and drives.

 

They’re quiet for most of the drive. Bob only speaks once, spends the rest of it with his head resting against the glass, not actually sleeping.

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“You’ll see when we get there.”

 

“This is technically a kidnapping, you know.”

 

“Can you just trust me for a few more minutes?”

 

“I do trust you,” Bob says, softly, and Nick hides the hint of his smile into his collar. 

 

“Then wait till we get there.”

 

Nick knows exactly when Bob realizes where they’re going, because he sits straight up in his seat and turns to him.

 

“Nick, what?” Bob says, a note of wonder in his voice.

 

Nick can’t help it, he smiles. “You’re going to have to guide us the rest of the way to it, I don’t think the weather app is going to cut it.”

 

So Bob takes over directions, bouncing in his chair like a little kid, getting more and more excited as the skies turn darker, an ominous rumble sounding in the distance. 

 

“We go on foot from here,” he says, after directing Nick to park at the start of a forest path. He gets out and bounds ahead, while Nick takes a flashlight out of his glove compartment. 

 

It’s cold outside, despite his jacket, but Bob seems unaffected, by the temperature or by the lack of light. In fact, now that they’re outside with no lights around, Nick notices that he’s glowing ever so slightly, a bright silhouette in the dark of the forest.

 

They walk for a while. The forest is quiet around them except for the thunder and the occasional streak of lightning. Most of the animals have hidden away from the storm. The two of them are the only ones dumb enough to walk towards it and not away.

 

After the fifth time Nick stumbles over a tree root, Bob falls back and takes his hand, guiding him through the underbrush. His hand is warm, almost too much, and it gives Nick  pins and needles in his fingers.

 

Finally, they come to a clearing where Bob stops, drops Nick’s hand.

 

“Here will do,” he says, and his voice echoes with the sound of thunder, booming across the clearing. The lightning is striking closer now, the pauses between the sound and flash growing shorter, almost on top of each other. The winds grow stronger, rustling the leaves and cutting through Nick’s jacket.

 

It’s not the first time on this trip that he feels uncertain, but it’s the first time he feels really afraid.

 

Bob mutters something under his breath, reaches up to remove his limiters, one after the other. They glow in the darkness, the runes on them stark. Bob drops them and they make a disproportionately loud sound hitting the ground.

 

For a moment, everything is quiet and still, and then the clearing explodes. 

 

Lightning strikes around them, dancing across the leaves of the trees, leaving scorch marks on the ground. The wind picks up, kicking up loose debris on the ground, twisting Nick’s clothes around him harshly, and Nick must make some sort of sound, because Bob turns around to look at him, and then suddenly he’s right there, his arms coming up to rest across Nick’s waist and back.

 

“I’ve got you,” he says, but Nick doesn’t hear it with his ears as much as it echoes in his head. “Hold on to me.”

 

Nick obeys without complaint, folds his face into Bob’s neck, nose filling with the familiar smell of ozone. The first drops of rain hit the exposed skin of his hands.

 

He doesn’t know how long the storm lasts, the rain and the thunder echoing in his ears. For a while it doesn’t even seem like he’s holding Bob, because Bob is everywhere around him, an electric warmth across Nick’s body. 

 

And then it’s over.

 

The thunder recedes, rumbling off into the distance, and the rain stops stinging his skin. Nick opens his eyes and pulls back to look up at Bob, finds him already watching. 

 

Bob grins at him, and the eye-bags and traces of fatigue on his face seem to have disappeared. His eyes are pupil-less, shining pale and strange on his face. 

 

Nick realizes he’s shivering, soaked to the bone from the rain, while Bob is completely dry.

 

“Well, you can’t walk back like that,” Bob’s voice echoes in his head. It’s unaccented, and melodic, like it gets when Bob is speaking Russian. “Hold on for a little while longer.”

 

Bob’s arms tighten around him and there’s a loud crack. 

 

They’re standing next to Nick’s car and Bob reaches out to touch it, and there’s another crack, and they’re in front of Bob’s apartment building, Nick’s car perfectly parked in the reserved parking space.

 

“Your parking skills are a lot better like this,” Nick says, when Bob lets him go, trying to work out the pins and needles in his arms.

 

“Thank you,” Bob says, and it’s clear it’s not just for the compliment.

 

*

 

**VI.**

 

Nick ends up staying the night. He barely manages to take off his shoes before planting face first into Bob’s guest bed. He doesn’t remember dreaming, but he wakes up settled and content.

 

There’s loud Russian swearing coming from the kitchen. Nick sighs and heaves himself up from the bed, padding barefoot through the hallway and downstairs.

 

Bob is standing at the stove, muttering something to himself. He still looks like he did last night, little bolts of lightning racing across his skin, and when he turns around his eyes are still glowing pale in his face. It’s a little disconcerting, but Nick goes with it.

 

“What are you doing?” Nick asks, walking next to him to look at the pan and wincing. He’s careful not to touch Bob, doesn’t know what it’ll do to him. “Was this supposed to be scrambled eggs?”

 

Bob gestures, and the problem becomes immediately apparent, as a zap of electricity runs down his arm, through the pan, hitting the stove, which emits a loud and ominous beeping noise, lets out a bit of smoke and dies.

 

“Let’s just have some cereal,” Nick suggests into the awkward silence. Bob nods miserably and attempts to let go of the pan.

 

Nick is not proud of how loudly he shrieks when they realize that the pan handle has melted all over Bob’s hand. Bob just blinks placidly at him.

 

“It doesn’t hurt,” he offers, and Nick would slap him around the face if he wasn’t afraid he’d be struck by lightning.

 

In the end, he finds some rubber gloves in one of the cupboards and starts the laborious process of removing pieces of plastic off Bob’s hand. It looks a little gruesome, but the skin heals right after Nick peels them away, only leaving it clear and pink.

 

After Nick finishes, it leaves them in another awkward silence, in which Nick realizes he’s still holding Bob’s hand, and that in the absence of melted plastic, that looks rather intimate. He drops it and Bob frowns at him. It’s extra weird because of his Christmas tree eyes.

 

“Hey,” Bob says suddenly, “your Feelings thing.”

 

“My Feelings thing,” Nick echoes, a little mockingly. “Is that the scientific term?”

 

“You know,” Bob says, frustrated. He waves his hand and the spice cupboard catches fire. He waves his hand again and puts it out, leaving a scorch mark near the cinnamon. “Where you touch people and know what they’re feeling. That thing.”

 

“Okay, first of all, it doesn’t work exactly like that,” Nick starts, deciding to ignore the cupboard thing for the time being. He’s a little upset - he’d bought Bob that as a housewarming present. “I mostly just feel echoes. Nothing you wouldn’t be able to guess by reading someone’s body language.”

 

“Oh,” Bob says, still frowning, “what do you feel from me?”

 

Nick frowns too, thinking. “Like, a storm? Little lightning bolts and shit, I don’t know. And you smell of ozone all the time.”

 

Bob’s eyes widen and he turns to sniff at his T-shirt self-consciously. “Not that it’s a bad thing!” Nick is quick to add. “It’s just how you smell.”

 

“So if you touched me right now, that’s what you’d feel?” Bob asks.

 

“Well, I’m not touching you right now, I’d get set on fire,” Nick says, looking meaningfully at the smouldering remains of the pan. They’re probably inhaling some not so great things right now. Cracking a window wouldn’t be a bad idea.

 

“No, I…” Bob makes a frustrated noise, and closes his eyes. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, the streaks of electricity flying across Bob’s body sink into his skin and disappear. When he opens his eyes, they’re normal light blue with distractingly long eyelashes.

 

“Touch me now,” Bob says, reaching out, voice tight from the strain. Nick takes his hand, turns it over gently in his palms. They’re warm and smooth, and he closes his eyes, trying to focus.

 

“Nothing,” Nick says after a minute, and opens his eyes.

 

Bob blinks, his eyes snapping from Nick’s lips to his eyes. “What?” he asks, weakly.

 

“I don’t feel anything at all,” Nick says, “in fact, it’s kind of scary, can you bring the thunderbolts back?”

 

“But,” Bob looks distraught, “then how are you supposed to know about my feelings?”

 

“Some people like to use words,” Nick says, gently, “I’m told they’re quite useful.”

 

“Oh,” Bob frowns, “well, I like you.”

 

“You like-”

 

“I’d like to date you.”

 

He pulls Nick closer and Nick yelps, stops himself from overbalancing by putting a hand on Bob’s chest.

 

“And eventually I’d like to marry you,” Bob continues conversationally, like he isn’t just turning Nick’s life upside down. He hides his face into Bob’s collarbone for a moment, willing his brain to catch up.

 

“Okay,” Nick says, simply.

 

“Okay?”

 

“Yeah. But you better not half-ass the proposal. I want it in public and there has to be choreography, okay?” Nick says, feeling himself start to grin.

 

“Oh,” Bob says, suddenly, pulling Nick back to arm's length, “I want to kiss you, but I have to put in my limiters, so just wait right here, okay? Don’t move!”

 

And then he’s gone, leaving Nick blinking in his wake. 

 

His phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s a text from Marcus.

 

‘What are you so happy about?’ it says, and Nick covers his mouth to hide his grin, as if that will make it any less noticeable from space, or from Buffalo.

 

“Nick!” he hears from somewhere outside the kitchen. “Have you seen my pentagram anywhere?”

 

“Have you checked under the bed?” Nick yells back.

 

“Why would it be under the bed, that’s ridiculous...oh.”

 

“I told you so.”

 

“Well, maybe if you stopped cleaning around here all the time-”

 

“Sergei.”

 

“...yes?” 

 

“Hurry up before I change my mind. And put out the coffee table, it’ll set off the smoke alarm.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> someone asked Nick what he says to Bob during the infamous hugs and he just said that he says 'Bobrovsky' and that for some reason that makes Bob laugh and isn't that just the cutest shit that you've ever heard in your entire life

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] these tornadoes are for you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11996415) by [frecklebombfic (frecklebomb)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frecklebomb/pseuds/frecklebombfic)




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